CHAPTER 13
Ensconced in the winged leather armchair I cast my eyes about Barnaby’s consulting room. I sense a difference but I can’t determine what it is. The room still bears the faint scent of previous clients mixed with the pot-pourri and oil burners, the curtains are still drawn, blocking out all presence of an outside world. The light is still of a slightly reddish hue, like watered-down blood, as if the room has absorbed the leeched-out agonies of Barnaby’s clients and is now pulsing with its own life-force yet, there is something not quite the same.
I’m grateful that Barnaby still continues with his silent approach, waiting for me to utter the first words; it gives me time to ponder this conundrum.
I look around the room again, allowing my eyes to come full circle to rest on Barn
